words stolen back

I wish I had the words,
because it plagues my mind. A good plague,
a calm contagion, the memory shines
and blesses the afflicted with feverish cool
clear bliss and leaves them rosy and glistening,
panting with shallow breath until
sickness returns. Listening
in memory for the words - the real words
I don't want to make up fake ones
to remember my way into - the ones you said
were very gold, and shone in my mind as
you let them unwind, oh your voice
is the finder that all treasures seek
- though they lie buried for centuries,
pining for maps that have ceased to be seen,
have ceased to show ways, have ceased to tell steps
and mark exes, been mouldered to worn tatters
un-looked at in curious attic chests, buried
under old dresses and letters to lovers
from lovers - all long dead
and blessed, now.